The Doctor Blake Mysteries: Unseen
by AndAllThatMishigas
Summary: A missing scene from every single episode of The Doctor Blake Mysteries
1. Chapter 1

**The Doctor Blake Mysteries: Unseen**

 _Still Waters_

Jean couldn't sleep that night. She'd had trouble for days. Weeks. Months. Ever since Lucien Blake had come to town. Together, they had buried his father and with him, Jean's comfortable and safe way of life. Thomas Blake had been strict and orderly, to a fault, some might have said. Lucien Blake was practically the opposite. The fact that he kept his hair and beard trimmed and neat were in complete contrast to everything else about his way of life.

And everything about him was bringing chaos and uncertainty to her life as well. He had taciturn moods, drinking bottle after bottle, night after night. He was erratic and unpredictable, leaving Jean constantly feeling like she'd been caught in a cyclone after he left a room.

But Lucien was so kind and gentle, with such a capacity for compassion and a liberal sensibility that Jean could tell was born from his distinct knowledge of hardship. She found him endlessly fascinating and boundlessly infuriating.

This case, from what she had been able to learn of it from catching snippets of conversation from Danny and Lucien, was a bit more than Jean could really stomach. Her job and her home might be ripped away by a man who had no intention of keeping her on. And to add to that, her nose was being rubbed in the terror and trauma of her own shameful past.

"The bad girls' school." Danny had called it that. Mattie and Lucien had corrected him. It was a reform school. Jean had swallowed back the metallic taste of adrenaline when she had pasted a stiff smile on her face and told Mattie that she still called it the bad girls' school too.

And as much as she'd tried to push it out of her head, Jean couldn't help but be transported back all those years ago. When she, like that dead girl, had gotten pregnant. Jean had been done with school by that time, thankfully, but that didn't stop her father from ranting and raving about how Jean had better pack her bags because he'd drive her up the hill to the bad girls' school in the farm truck. And Jean knew her father well enough to know that he meant it. If Christopher, sweet and wonderful Christopher, hadn't stood up to old Farmer Randall and insisted that he marry Jean instead. Jean's whole life had been set in front of her then.

All the possibilities and dreams for her future had been halted when she'd been foolish enough to have a roll in the hayloft with the gorgeous boy she'd fallen in love with. With the pregnancy, they'd gotten married. She'd lost the baby soon after, but the marriage was never anything she regretted. Everything that came after had been laid out in front of her. Even when Christopher died in the war, Jean had no choice but to continue on with her boys and the farm until they were old enough to make their own way and she'd been lucky enough to get a position with Doctor Blake.

Everything had always been right in front of her, solid and well-planned. Until Lucien arrived with his wild ideas and his naughty paintings and his strange methods. Thomas had never brought home the cases he worked on the way Lucien did. She'd never been privy to police information the way she found herself now, unable to escape it.

It had been a long time since Jean had thought about the bad girls' school. And now she couldn't get it out of her head, reliving the fear and shame.

She couldn't sleep. So she came downstairs to have some warm milk. The door to Lucien's bedroom was ajar and the light shone through. She paused outside, watching, curious as to what he was up to.

She saw Lucien drinking. As usual. He was slowly paging though a notebook. From what she could see over his shoulder, he was looking at drawings of some sort. His whole body was full of tension. Jean couldn't see his face but she could feel the pain of his expression radiating off him.

Jean felt a strange sense of sorrow, watching him. So powerful that she forgot about her own painful memories for just a moment. The overwhelming urge to go to him, to take care of him, nearly compelled her to cross the threshold of his room and take him in her arms.

But Jean shook herself. She went back upstairs to her room without ever going into the kitchen.


	2. Chapter 2

_The Greater Good_

"Let him go! You'll have to kill both of us to get away, Sergeant. Are you prepared for that? My Christopher was a Sergeant, too. This is his pistol. But he died in the Solomons. I wonder what he'd make of you." Jean's hand trembled and there were tears in her eyes, but her voice was strong and fierce. She gestured with the gun for Hannam to move.

He released Lucien, who doubled over, gasping for air and coughing. Lucien moved to her side. "Thank you, Jean," he breathed.

Lucien immediately called Lawson and tied Hannam up until the police came to get him.

But as they waited, Jean finally lowered her weapon—Christopher's weapon. Lucien watched her from the corner of his eye and was struck with the most powerful realization.

Jean Beazley was the best woman he'd ever known.

Lucien loved his wife, still loved her after all these years, and had known many smart and beautiful women in his life. But seeing Jean this way, having her enthusiastically assist him in sneaking into a hotel, having her rescue him the way she had, to hear the pride in her voice as she spoke of her husband…it hit him all of a sudden.

She had experienced so much pain in her life. The world had been cruel to her and had surely beaten her down. But Jean Beazley always held her head high. She was shockingly kind and intelligent, and she was the strongest person he'd ever met. She was so lovely, and she didn't deserve an ounce of the heartache she had experienced.

How different would it be, Lucien wondered, if Christopher had survived instead of Lucien? If Jean had her upstanding husband by her side instead of being saddled with a sorry drunkard like Lucien bloody Blake?

She deserved so much better. But in that moment, Lucien knew he had found everything he hadn't realized he needed. And he found it all in the beauty, brilliance, and bravery of Jean Beazley.

He'd been distracted the rest of the night, attempting to get answers out of Hannam, having a thoroughly frustrating and disappointing conversation with Derek. He returned home in the morning in time to see Jean on her way to Anzac Day. And oh my, did she look pretty. Bright and proud and so very pretty.

His voice caught in his throat as they spoke. It must have been sleep deprivation that made the emotion overwhelm him in such a way. But seeing Jean there, wearing her husband's medals, knowing she was going to be staying, it was all just too much to bear.

Jean smiled at him. She nodded encouragingly. And Lucien sniffed back his tears as she walked out the door to march in the parade. Because he knew she would be coming back.


	3. Chapter 3

_Death of a Travelling Salesman_

"Clear the room. Jean?"

"I'll wait in the corridor."

Jean knew she was no good standing there with the doctor and nurse trying to concentrate. And honestly, seeing Danny lying there in shock from a snake bite was more than she could handle. She hurried out with Lawson to wait.

Lucien came out a moment later. "We've administered the antivenin. Mattie is cleaning and dressing the bite wound now. We're going to be taking his vitals and seeing how he fairs. It'll take a little while for the venom to be counteracted."

He turned to go back in, but Jean stopped him. "Lucien, he's my nephew. I practically raised him with my boys. Please tell me, do you think you got it right? Did you give him the right medicine?" Her voice was barely over a whisper. Jean knew that she would have burst into tears if she tried to speak any louder.

"We won't know for a little while," Lucien replied. "But I'll tell you as soon as I know anything." He placed a gentle hand on her arm and gave her a comforting squeeze before going back into the exam room.

Jean was left in the corridor, pacing back and forth, sitting beside Lawson with her face in her hands, getting up to nervously pace some more.

How was she going to tell her sister? She'd promised that she would keep Danny safe and take good care of him, insisting that Ballarat was the perfect place for a young constable to be stationed. Nothing much ever happened on Ballarat.

Rationally, Jean knew this wasn't at all her fault. How could she have stopped Danny getting bitten by a snake? But she couldn't help but feel like she'd failed her nephew. Just like she had failed Christopher, sending him off to die in battle. Just like she had failed Christopher Jr., neglecting him as a child so much that he'd run off to the Army to find his own glory. Just like she had failed Jack, not being strong enough to set him on a good path before he'd gotten himself arrested and run off to do who knew what else. And now Danny, too.

Lucien returned. "He's going to be alright."

"Oh thank god," Jean sighed in relief.

"But perhaps he should stay with us till he's feeling better," Lucien suggested. He placed his hand on Jean's arm again.

"Of course," she agreed, trying to ignore the way her stomach fluttered at the feel of his touch, chocking it up to her nerves over Danny and nothing more.

Lucien went to speak to Mattie and Jean turned away. Danny would be alright. Lucien saved him. This time she hadn't failed.


	4. Chapter 4

_Brotherly Love_

 _Oh, that man!_ Jean was a bit more aggressive than she should have been in cutting the rabbit. But it felt good to get out her frustrations somehow. Better hacking away at the rabbit than at Lucien Blake's face.

Mattie wandered into the kitchen soon after the doctor left. Too soon for Jean's annoyance to have cooled, to give way to her rational thought.

"Lucien's right," Mattie said gently.

Jean looked up, her turquoise eyes looking steely gray with the fire of her frustration. "You really mean to tell me that you agree that a man who murdered a police officer and nearly shot Danny shouldn't have to pay for his crimes?"

"No, I'm saying that the prison killing Sean McBride is no better than what Sean McBride did to Clive Cooper," Mattie replied with the strength of her conviction in her own voice.

"If Sean really did kill Clive Cooper."

"What, now you agree with Lucien?" Mattie asked incredulously, hardly believing her ears.

"Lucien doesn't know what he believes, and that is something we should all pay attention to. Lest you forget that his doubts and hunches have done more good than any of us even knows," Jean answered, gesturing the knife at Mattie to make her point.

Mattie could see she was getting nowhere and huffed slightly as she turned and walked away.

Jean's anger was now sufficiently dulled. She realized what she'd said to Mattie. And that she'd meant it. Lucien had doubts. And if Lucien had doubts, perhaps they should all pay closer attention. He had a way of noticing things that others didn't. He was so brilliant and so observant but sometimes—oftentimes, it seemed to Jean—he had so much in that clever mind of his that he couldn't quite sift through it all and put the pieces together.

So maybe he was onto something here. Maybe there was a chance that Sean didn't kill Clive. And if that were the case, even after his earlier confession, should he be executed? Jean felt certain he was guilty and for that, he should hang.

Lucien didn't. Lucien always seemed to find the best in anyone. Well, perhaps not the best, but he was so much more forgiving of the things Jean often saw to be fatal flaws. Perhaps they weren't so fatal after all. Perhaps the doctor was onto something there, too, finding those tiny redeeming qualities in even the most wicked people.

Jean smiled to herself, not unlike the way she did when he was hanging through the servery window earlier, absent-mindedly watching her work. She didn't like being studied, but she did like that he found her presence helpful when he was trying to work through his problems.

Perhaps whatever it was about Lucien Blake that allowed him to see the sliver of redemption in Sean McBride was the same part of him that saw Jean Beazley, who was never regarded by anyone as more than a farm girl, a farmer's wife, a pitiful widow, and a housekeeper, as worthy of his respect and esteem.

She stood up a bit straighter as she finished her task with the rabbit. Yes, perhaps Lucien was onto something.


	5. Chapter 5

_Hearts and Flowers_

As soon as Angela was well-sorted and the police had dealt with Andrew, Lucien raced back to the banquet hall. He'd left Jean somewhat suddenly, and he'd promised to drive her back home after the award ceremony. It was probably all over by now, and she was probably all alone, annoyed that he'd kept her there waiting. He didn't like making her unhappy and had tried recently to do better at avoiding becoming the cause of her displeasure.

But, in a stroke of luck, Lucien was right on time. They'd just begun announcing the begonia prizes. A round of applause for all the entrants, yes, lovely. Lucien entered through the back of the hall and stood there quietly as Charlie Griffiths made the announcements.

"Now, our honorable mention. The judges had some trouble with third prize. There were two plants that were equal in their splendor, so rather than choose one over the other, we've done two honorable mentions instead. And the first of those goes to Mrs. Jean Beazley." Charlie held the placard and ribbon for Jean to come onstage to collect.

The crowd had some polite applause. Lucien paid them no mind. As soon as Jean stood up from where she sat at that front table, he whistled and cheered with thunderous clapping. "Bravo, Jean!"

She whirled around at the surprising noise and blushed a bright pink to match half the begonias on the stage. Jean saw Lucien there in the back, shouting her praises and absolutely beaming with pride. She had to laugh, looking down to hide her face as she climbed the steps of the stage to collect her prize. Lucien was still cheering and applauding for her. She knew if she looked at him again, she'd burst into tears.

"Lucien," she hissed as she finally made her way back to him, carrying her plant and award card in her arms.

He ignored her gentle scolding, not caring a single bit if she was embarrassed. She deserved to be showered with accolades, and now that she'd finally gotten one, he was going to make damn sure that whole bloody town saw. "Well done, Jean," he murmured, his eyes shining brightly. "Here, let me carry that for you," he insisted, taking the beautiful white begonia from her.

"Thank you, Lucien," she replied softly. The blush in her cheeks was probably still brightly visible. But for once, she found, she didn't care.


	6. Chapter 6

_If the Shoe Fits_

The sound of Joy's voice over the phone was suddenly muted in Lucien's mind. The light from the car headlights shone, revealing Jean and…a man. She squeezed his hand and smiled brightly as she entered the house.

Lucien's chest constricted. Blood pounded in his ears. He saw the mysterious man drive away, and he dropped his hand from the blinds, turning away. Turning his attention back to Joy. He frowned to himself and continued telling her about the accident at Tyneman's factory and the horrible safety conditions that had caused a man's death.

Once he got off the phone, Lucien knew he needed to figure out what on earth he was going to do. He sat down at his desk with a new bottle of scotch from his bottom drawer. Something told him he'd be getting through quite a bit of this bottle tonight.

He poured the first glass and swallowed it in one go, grimacing at the familiar, comforting burn of the alcohol in his throat. He poured another.

What on earth could have prompted such a reaction? To see Jean, his housekeeper, coming home late in the evening with a man. He couldn't be jealous. He'd have no reason to be jealous. It was ridiculous. Jean was his housekeeper. Perhaps his friend. But certainly nothing more. She was just a hard-working widow working in his father's house. His house. Bright and lovely, but anyone could see that. There was nothing wrong with noticing the talents of a friend. She was his employee, for God's sake!

Lucien drank a third glass. Seeing her smile at that man had been…wrong. No, that wasn't reasonable to think. There was absolutely nothing wrong with Jean spending her time with a man who appreciated her. She was, after all, a very handsome woman. Someone was bound to notice sooner or later. She wasn't chained to the house, after all. She was free to spend her time as she pleased. Lucien had absolutely no claim over her whatsoever. And as her friend, he should be happy for her, if this man treated her well and she wanted to be in his company. Good on her.

Lucien wasn't some envious, coveting brute. Jean owed him absolutely nothing. And it would be wrong if she felt like she did. After all, Lucien had just gotten off the phone with Joy MacDonald. And wasn't she lovely? Smart and accomplished and quite beautiful. He had enjoyed their dinner those weeks before. Such a charming woman. And Lucien flattered himself to think that perhaps she might be interested in more than just dinner with him. He certainly knew his way to a woman's heart and her bed. And he hadn't felt an inclination to use such talents of his in such a long time. There had been women after the war ended, certainly. He still searched for his family, but in the meantime, he was only a man, after all.

He smiled to himself as he sipped his scotch. It was starting to have its desired effect, dulling his ever-whirling mind. Lucien could practically picture Joy's face in his mind. Perfectly curled hair framing her smooth, pale skin. Why yes, perhaps he could seek a bit more there.

If Jean could go out with a man, Lucien could certainly go out with a woman. Yes, that's precisely what he'd do. No more inappropriate jealousy regarding his housekeeper. She was free to do as she pleased. And Lucien would, if nothing else, find a bit of frivolous distraction with Joy.

He finally put the bottle back in his bottom drawer and leaned back in the chair as he finished the final glass of scotch. He smiled, pleased with his decision. But when he closed his eyes to imagine the wonderful delights this decision would bring, the shining gaze he saw in his mind was an entrancing turquoise. Lucien knew that Joy's eyes were a warm brown. His whiskey-weary mind couldn't seem to picture them, though.


	7. Chapter 7

_Bedlam_

Jean heard the discordant sounds from the piano, far sloppier than earlier in the evening. A sure sign he was letting the drink take his focus. She repressed a tired sigh. This had certainly gone on long enough.

She tried to resist tiptoeing through the house, as though she shouldn't have been disturbing him. No, it was her job to care for the house. To cook and clean and keep the books. And to keep him. However he needed. She would walk with self-assurance to stop his incessant drunken piano playing and send him off to bed.

He noticed her walk in. "Jean. Did I wake you?" he asked, slurring ever so slightly. His eyes wouldn't seem to fully open.

"No, I was up."

"Fancy a drink?"

"No, I'm fine," she answered, perhaps a bit too quickly. Did he understand how it pained her to see him like this? How she wished he weren't so foolish to get himself roaring drunk where she would find him? If he had to, couldn't he at least have the decency to keep well enough to himself? She swallowed hard, trying to keep calm and collected.

Lucien didn't seem to notice her distress. "Ah. Here's one you'll know!" He began playing an upbeat tune, surprisingly proficiently. "Join in whenever you like!" he shouted above the melody.

"It's a bit late for a sing-song!" she yelled sternly in reply, crossing to the other side of the piano.

"Nonsense," he scoffed. "Never too late for a song.

"Yes, it is," Jean insisted, screwing the cap back on the whiskey bottle he'd nearly finished. "You play very well. It's a shame we only ever hear you late at night." There was a gentleness to her tone that surprised her. She needed to be firm with him, like a naughty child in need of discipline.

"Yes...of course, Dad was a virtuoso. Could play anything," Lucien muttered bitterly, waving his hands above the keys in demonstration. "Which is why I eventually took up the drums." That demonstration knocked over the empty glass from the side table onto the rug. "Oh I..."

Jean quickly collected it off the ground. "It's alright." She paused, leaning down to meet his eyes. "You should go to bed," she suggested softly.

He paused, averting his face from her steely gaze. "Yes," he eventually conceded. His fingers wandered the keys again. "Doctor Blake's son gets it spectacularly wrong again."

Bending down further, Jean sought to meet his eyes, more worried for him than she perhaps had any right to be.

He pounded out one final chord. "Self-recrimination and alcohol, Jean, never mix."

That tone in his voice was far too tender for her to indulge. "I'll keep that in mind," she replied resolutely before giving his knee a solid smack. "Come on. Bed!" she announced, standing up to assist him.

With a final huff of resignation, Lucien held out his hands for her to haul him up. She slung one of his enormous muscled arms over her shoulder and grasped him around the waist. "Um should I..." He reached around for the bottle.

Jean directed him away. "No, no. Leave that."

"Oh it's a bloody mess," he sighed.

"Yes," she agreed, nearly laughing. But she was too focused on her task, to get him to bed and not let her mind wander to the feeling of his body wrapped around hers, the solid wall of muscle she held in her arms. No, mustn't think of that. Certainly not now.

It wasn't too far to his bedroom, thank goodness. Jean was able to release him to flop down onto his bed. He fell with a mighty groan. She went about pulling a blanket up over him, trying to keep him settled.

"Oh I should...I should probably...go and brush my teeth. Jean...ah Jean, sweet Jean," he murmured practically incoherently.

And perhaps if he hadn't been saying her name in such a delicate tone, she would have been kinder and removed his shoes. But that felt too intimate an act for her to perform right now. She needed to leave the room before her mind wandered a bit too much. As it was, she gazed at his face too long, allowed her hand to linger on his chest. No, mustn't do that.

She turned swiftly to exit the room and leave him to sleep it off. But she noticed a pile of receipts that he'd promised to give her. Jean flipped through them.

And then, knowing Lucien was completely lost to the world, Jean allowed her curiosity to get the better of her. It always had been her mortal failing, being far too curious about things that weren't reasonably any of her business. But she couldn't help herself.

She opened the box full of his secrets that he tried to hide from the world. Letters from Singapore, tied with a lovely ribbon. And in amongst the papers, she found photographs.

Lucien and a beautiful Asian woman. Jean turned the photo over. It was labeled September 1940. That must be his wife. Oh she was so very lovely.

The other photos had a baby girl, about five years old, with her mother. Lucien's daughter. And another photo with the three of them. The wife and daughter were beautiful. And Lucien stood by them so proud and happy. So very, very happy.

Jean had to stifle a sob as tears sprang to her eyes. She glanced at the bed to ensure that Lucien wasn't awake to see her. She pressed her fingers to her lips to keep from crying. The feeling had bowled her over. This overwhelming sadness she suddenly felt. Lucien and his family. The family he'd lost. The family he had been searching for with all his letters and calls over the past months.

It was eighteen years since those photographs were taken. How long after that had been the last time he'd seen them? Had it been eighteen years since he had held his wife and child? Jean knew exactly how long it had been since she'd had her husband in her arms. She knew to the day, practically to the hour. But at least she had never lost her sons. Well, not the way Lucien had lost his daughter.

She put the photos away and closed the box. She couldn't bear to see them anymore. The image was burned in her mind.

That expression on Lucien's face in those photos was so foreign to her. He'd joked that he didn't have any pride, or perhaps just a bit. In the eighteen years since those photographs, he had obviously lost so much. His family, his familiar life, perhaps his very soul.

Because Jean realized what it was about those photos that had affected her so. This dear, broken man whose house she kept, who she'd grown to care for as a friend and companion of sorts...he had looked so content in those photos. Jean had never seen him look that way in the time she'd known him. And to think that such a wonderful man could be reduced to the figure she gazed upon now, passed out drunk on his bed with all his clothes on, to never again stand with a proud smile beside his family...well, the very idea of it had reduced her to tears.


	8. Chapter 8

_Game of Champions_

Lucien made his way to the college to speak to Professor Watterman about Simon Lo. He walked quickly and kept his head down. It wasn't often that Lucien Blake felt ashamed anymore. He'd lost enough in this world to rid him of whatever pride and dignity he'd once had. And particularly in Ballarat. Conservative, small-minded bloody Ballarat.

He kicked a pebble with a bit of gusto as he walked just to relieve some of his frustration. It had been important, in that moment, to speak to Simon in Tagalog. He needed the lad to listen, needed him to know someone was there who understood him. In more ways than one. But speaking in a foreign tongue, particularly one of the Asiatic variety, in front of others in the town had been a bad idea. The way people looked at him, a white man in Ballarat speaking to an Asian man in anything but English. He may as well have grown an extra head.

In Singapore, it had been par for the course for all the army officers to speak more than one language. It helped in communicating with the locals. And it simply made life more interesting. In that other life of his, Lucien had learned Tagalog along with Mandarin and a smattering of other languages here and there. No one batted an eye. He'd married a Chinese woman, which wasn't at all unusual for a man in his position at that time. He and Mei Lin had spoken English and Mandarin with Li in equal measure.

But back in Ballarat, all those things were frowned upon and regarded with xenophobic vitriol. Lucien could still hear Patrick Tyneman in his head, shouting at Simon to speak English. Bloody racist bastard.

What had hurt most, though, was the way the others had looked at him. The way Danny had looked at him with that specific look of shock and surprise. Oh Lucien knew he was wont to show off a bit here and there; Lawson chided him for it all the time. This was different, though. This transported Lucien right back to being a boy in the house of a foreign woman, being picked on in school for speaking French to his mother. Being sent away by his father when the teachers in Ballarat couldn't handle him. It was always the same. _Be clever, Lucien, but no, not like that. Don't be different. Don't learn things we don't like. Just stay in line._

His mind drifted to Jean for a moment, wondering what she would have done if she'd witnessed Lucien speaking Tagalog to Simon. Jean was brilliant and kind, but she had hard morals, born of the farm and the Church. She was quite judgmental, and while she wasn't overtly offended or offensive like Tyneman, she had a way of showing her disapproval through a sharp tone or a withering glare. And frankly, Lucien wanted no part of it.

If he wasn't already at the front gates of the college, Lucien would have gone right home and locked himself in his study with a brand new bottle of scotch to drown his troubles. But as it was, he had a job to do. Perhaps speaking to the professor would distract Lucien enough to brighten his mood. One could only hope.


	9. Chapter 9

_All That Glitters_

Upon returning home at the end of that horrid night, Jean went right upstairs to her room, resisting the urge to slam the door. Lucien wasn't there to hear it anyway. He was locked up right where he belonged, punished and imprisoned for his sins.

She angrily unpinned her hat from her head, the one rather nice one she owned and wore at all functions like this on. He hadn't commented on it, though she shouldn't have expected him to. He'd told Mattie she looked pretty before they'd left. But Mattie was young and beautiful, and Lucien delighted in praising her like he would his own daughter.

Jean sat down in the chair at her vanity. Her anger simmered, and it was replaced with a feeling of heavy emptiness. She removed her jewelry slowly. Sadly.

Lucien wasn't the only one who lost someone. He wasn't the only one to feel righteous indignation for the way the British had treated the Australians during the war, sending all those young men to die for an empire that, as Lucien had rightly said, simply left them all defenseless.

It was this thought, being so brutally reminded by her own loss that still ached in her chest at ever moment if she allowed herself to think of it, that had softened her rage toward Lucien and his drunken antics. And she knew, better than anyone in Ballarat, she'd wager, how his loss haunted him still, how he'd still not given up hope in his desperate search for the wife and child he'd lost. Jean wasn't sure which of them had it easier. There was still a chance for Lucien, for him to find them and be reunited with her family. That hope was sustaining, certainly, but it tortured him, kept him stagnant, clutching desperately at any shred of news he could hear. Jean had no hope. Christopher would never return to her. All that was left of him was what the Army had delivered to her and the gravestone she'd purchased to mark empty ground for her to visit him. And even though she missed her husband and her old life each and every day, at least she had a life to call her own. Lucien was simply waiting, biding his time, unable to move forward in anything.

She sighed, standing to undress and change into her nightclothes. Jean was sure she'd be angry at Lucien again tomorrow when she had to collect him from the police station, but all those feelings had been replaced with worry for him now. She had half a mind to go down there and get him right this instant, though she knew she couldn't.

Lucien hadn't been himself lately, she could tell. He was more taciturn of late and more than a little shaky. It wasn't just to do with the British Consul's arrival. Nell Clasby had seen it, too. Nell was worried about Lucien, the man she'd known as a boy. And if Nell was worried, they all should be.

It had been wonderful to see Lucien with Nell, the gentle care he had for her and the loving manner in which she interacted with him in return. It was, in Jean's mind, the closest anyone would ever see to Lucien Blake enjoying a parental relationship with anyone. Both his parents were dead and buried, and Nell Clasby had been very good friends with the Blakes. Jean could almost imagine what Lucien was like as a boy with his mother, when she saw him with Nell.

By the time Jean was ready for bed and slipping beneath her sheets, she was consumed with her concern for Lucien. He wasn't well, and while it certainly wasn't her job to be a mother to him, to support him in that way, it was nevertheless her duty to care for him anyway. After all, she was the housekeeper. And this was his house. In the morning, she'd collect him from his cell and do a better job keeping an eye on him.


	10. Chapter 10

_Someone's Son, Someone's Daughter_

Jean wiped away her tears, not wanting them to fall anymore, as she walked past Matthew's car and down the street. She'd lost her sense upon hearing Lucien say that he'd resigned from the hospital board. He'd spoken with such regret and finality, such pessimism that she didn't associate with him normally. And with every sad word, she could feel life slipping away from her. Everything she'd come to rely on, everything that made her proud to be associated with the Blake name. He was destroying all of it, as though it didn't matter. As though everyone in town didn't need him. As though she didn't need him.

She made her way quickly and quietly to the alley behind the Colonists' Club. It had been a long time since she'd done this, but she had nowhere else to go, and whenever she'd felt that way, she'd come here.

Lorraine Collins welcomed her old friend with open arms. "Jean, I've got a million things going, so how about you take a seat in the pantry and I'll get Cec to bring you a drink?"

Jean graciously accepted the invitation. She felt a bit silly, sitting in the pantry by herself. She should have known Lorraine would be busy. She was the head of the kitchen at the Club now. How far she had come since their days together, children on neighboring farms, best friends bolstering each other when their husbands went off to war. Neither Christopher Beazley nor Andrew Collins had returned home. But Jean had two young boys to care for and Lorraine had no children, so she'd gone straight into town to find herself a job while Jean had struggled with the Beazley farm as long as she could manage. Even now, when both women lived and worked in Ballarat proper, they didn't see each other as often as they might have liked. But whenever one needed the other, like now, they always made the time.

"Good evening, Mrs. Beazley. Lorraine said you might need a drink and a friendly ear."

Jean smiled at Cec Drury, the old bar manager. His kindness made her tears return.

Cec put down the bottle of sherry and sat beside her. "Oh no, what's this? What's the matter?"

"I think I'll need something stronger than sherry tonight, Cec."

He offered her his handkerchief and hurried back to the bar. Cec returned quickly with a bottle of Irish whiskey and a pair of glasses. "How's this for you?"

Jean nodded, still crying. She took a big gulp of the amber liquid, relishing in the burn it produced in her throat. "He's really done it this time," she said finally.

"Dr. Blake?"

"Lucien," Jean corrected. She knew his title and referred to him as such in company out of respect and propriety, but in her own mind, he was always Lucien. Dr. Blake was his father, and he was gone. "I just can't understand him, Cec."

"He's had a very difficult life."

"So have we all! ButLucien is so good. So kind and brilliant and so very wonderful." Jean took another swig of whiskey. "So very wonderful," she murmured into the glass. She could already feel the alcohol go to her head. So she drank a bit more.

Cec had never seen Jean Beazley drink like this before. She must really be upset. "Lucien Blake is a good man," he agreed, watching Jean carefully.

She scoffed, "He never thinks beyond the end of his nose. He's like a racehorse with blinders, you know? He can't ever see more than what's right in front of him. And I know that's why he asks me for help. And I'm honored to help him. To help him see and understand past what he's gotten himself focused on." Another drink. "You know what he is? Lucien is like a wild horse. He needs to be broken. And I can do that! I know how to handle horses. I broke more than one horse of my own on the farm. But the thing about a wild horse is that once you break it, you've taken away the brilliant spark," she finished sadly. Jean downed the rest of her second glass of whiskey.

She poured another and Cec stood up. "Mrs. Beazley, let me make you some tea," he offered, leaving Jean alone once again.

As she sipped her whiskey, she knew that it was her job, her duty to try harder and help Lucien be better. But as she sat there in the pantry, she couldn't help but be reminded of the very last horse she'd owned before she had to sell Christopher's farm. That horse had been the bravest, smartest, loveliest steed she'd ever had, and when he was broken, he was never more obedient or loyal. That horse—Reginald, Jack had insisted on calling him—had lost what made him special, once he became obedient. Once again, Jean couldn't stop herself from crying.

Lucien was not his father, as Jean was keenly aware. She didn't want to try to turn him into his father. But she just wished he would honor Dr. Blake's legacy, realize how important he was to Ballarat. All she wanted was for Lucien to be the best of himself, the charming, sweet, gentle, intelligent man she'd gotten to know over the months since his father's passing.

The world was starting to go a bit fuzzy. Jean could feel her eyelids droop and her focus wane. She heard Lorraine's voice ask if she was alright, if she could get home. Jean just hummed noncommittally in response.

"Up you get, Mrs. Beazley. We've got a spare room for you upstairs. Come with me," Cec instructed gently, holding her by her arm as she stood up. He led her carefully through the staff corridors of the Club, ensuring no one of importance saw her in this state, stumbling about with a glazed expression.

"He's wonderful just as he is," she slurred. "He's not his father, and he shouldn't be."

"Yes, I know, Mrs. Beazley."

Cec finally got her into the room and helped her lie down on the bed. Jean was still talking nonsense. "I was comfortable with Dr. Blake. Everything was so easy. And nothing is easy with Lucien, but I've never felt so alive." She was nearly passed out, and she whispered, "He's going to leave, and then what do I do? He makes me alive, but why does he make life so bloody difficult?"

After turning out the light, Cec closed the door behind him. It was not his place to speak to Lucien Blake about what concerned his housekeeper. Sometimes he wished it was. Jean was very right; he couldn't see much past the end of his nose. How was Lucien ever going to notice that the woman who lived in his house had learned the truth of him and because of it, rather than in spite of it, had come to love him?


	11. Chapter 11

_The Heart of the Matter_

Jean sat alone in the kitchen with a cup of tea. Mattie was out with some friends. Lucien was at the town hall on police business already. She'd gone to pick him up from the bus station when he finally returned home from China.

She sipped her tea, trying to muddle through her traitorous thoughts. Oh she had been so excited to see him. The moment she got his letter giving the date of his return, she had been overcome with giddy anticipation. For over a week, she'd daydreamed about his homecoming. She'd been sustained by ideas of seeing him happily playing and singing at the piano, going all through the day and night with his odd experiments for his cases, perhaps news of his daughter in Shanghai, his excitable kindness with his patients.

That trouble with the car nearly frustrated her to tears when it made her late picking him up. But she'd made it, running through the street to greet him. His happy grin on his dear face was such a sight for sore eyes. Jean nearly had the impulse to throw her arms around his strong shoulders, press her cheek to his to feel the scratch of his beard.

Jean shook herself. Silly thought. Horribly inappropriate. Because as soon as she'd been able to get ahold of herself, she saw a most unwelcome sight over his shoulder. Joy MacDonald. Lucien had been just as happy to greet Mrs. MacDonald as he had been to greet Jean. He'd even turned back to say how lovely it was to see her as Jean tried to hurry him away for police business.

The front door opened and Jean sat up, hoping Lucien had returned home. "Lucien?" she heard Mattie call.

Jean sighed, settling back down. "He's not here, Mattie."

The young woman appeared in the kitchen. "I thought you were going to pick him up?"

"I did. And dropped him right at the town hall with his medical bag for whatever police business Superintendent Lawson needs him for."

Mattie frowned, showing the emotion Jean hid from her own face. "I suppose we'll wait up for him, then?"

Jean gave a gentle smile. "I'll make you some tea."


	12. Chapter 12

_The Food of Love_

Lucien had gone to handle his case. Those poor teenaged girls so caught up in all that silly music. There hadn't been music like that when Jean was a girl. At least not any that her father allowed her to have in the house. She'd heard some rather exciting jazz records in her day, some wonderful tunes from America particularly, but this new rock-n-roll was something else. Quite fun, actually. All the repetitive, foolish words didn't quite catch her fancy but the rhythm and melody certainly did.

Earlier, he'd played about on the piano, which she always loved and would never admit, and made her sing with him. And despite his complaints about her vibrato, she'd really enjoyed singing with him. Standing beside him, folding the sheets while she sang, his endearing warble as he played the accompaniment right off the top of his head. He was a well-taught musician with a natural ability. What he lacked in his father's discipline and skill he made up for with passion and flair. If the doorbell hadn't interrupted them, Jean might have been tempted to ask him to play something else they could do together. It might have been so nice to stand there for a bit longer to sing with him. Perhaps even sit on the bench beside him, feel his warmth and lean against him just a bit…

But it was folly to consider such things. Even when she was alone, Jean couldn't allow her mind to wander that way. Best get on with her housework.

She finished folding and putting away the laundry while Lucien was out. She dressed the roast for dinner and watered her plants in the sunroom. All that was left for the day was the dusting. The sitting room desperately needed a once-over.

In an impulsive move, Jean decided to put on some music while she worked. She'd been humming that Bobby Lee song while she worked that day, but Lucien's lovely ballad version. And that only served to remind her of singing it with him. Quite enough of that.

She put on the only record within easy reach. Bobby Lee. That tune was quite catchy, goodness! And before she knew it, Jean was singing along and dancing about. For just a few minutes that afternoon, all alone in the house, Jean felt free and happy like never before. Having a bit of fun to herself was just what she needed to clear the cobwebs from her soul as she did the same to the furniture.

Lucien wouldn't be home for quite a while. Perhaps she'd put the record on once more.


	13. Chapter 13

_A Foreign Field_

Lucien sat at his desk, the classical piano playing on the record getting lost within his mind. He'd had nearly enough scotch to quiet his thoughts, a bit too much to keep them focused. He stared at the chalkboard, trying to figure out the code, trying to determine what this dead spy was doing. If he was a spy. Lucien was rather sure now that he was a spy.

But he couldn't keep his attention on what was in front of him. His mind wandered. Wandered back to the gardens, back to sitting under the tree where their victim was found, back to the way Jean sat beside him with her arms around his neck.

He wasn't certain if he'd ever really looked at her the way he had in that moment. So close, so devoid of distraction from regarding her lovely features. He was supposed to be replaying the possible modes of poisoning, and Jean had been kind enough to assist him. Never one to shirk from an opportunity, his Jean. Well, no, not _his_. Just Jean. Jean of her very own. Jean with her wide, gray eyes. They were almost turquoise in that light, actually. And he was so close, he could see the freckles on her face peek past the makeup she wore. The slight bleeding of her elegant red lipstick into the lines around her mouth, just untidy enough to show she'd been going through life without paying too much mind to the artifice. Her chestnut hair was just starting to gray at the temples. He'd never noticed that before. The sun caught the sharp curve of her cheekbones. He could feel her breath. He could smell the faded hint of her perfume. Oh lord, she was beautiful.

And thank god she'd seen Aaron lurking in the bushes, brought him out of his dangerous study of her face. He'd put his arms around her, his hands splayed on her back. When she'd noticed the man watching them, she hopefully hadn't noticed the way his grip involuntarily tightened, the way he might have pulled her even closer if they went uninterrupted.

He was meant to be solving a murder, for Christ's sake! Jean was helping him, and he'd nearly…well, he'd not nearly done anything at all. But he might have wanted to. And just thinking about her now, what almost might have been, was consuming his faculties.

Perhaps it was just the scotch.

At that very moment, Jean herself came to check on him. Came to see how he was managing, to see if he needed her assistance. And he desperately did. He needed her. More than he'd ever admit.


	14. Chapter 14

_Smoke and Mirrors_

Teaching Mattie how to knit was quite a chore. But a very rewarding one. Mattie was such a modern girl, so bright and educated and well-to-do and sheltered in so many ways. She valued her independence and her work and her ambition. Jean admired that about her. Most of the time. But so much of that ambition blinded her. She saw everything bold and shiny up ahead while treating everything behind her with a level of disdain that never failed to rub Jean the wrong way.

Oh Mattie meant no harm, of course. Jean knew Mattie loved and respected her. But cooking and cleaning and gardening and sewing, these were the only things that Jean had to offer. Mattie looked at all Jean had and saw limitation. Jean looked at all Mattie had and saw privilege. What Jean would have given, when she was Mattie's age, to be able to go to school and work and have the world open to her.

But Jean's life had taken a different path. She'd had her farm and her boys. And now her cooking and cleaning and gardening and sewing. She had this opportunity to share her skills with Mattie, and Mattie was eager to learn, much to Jean's mild surprise and sheer delight.

Jean had thought that she might be able to pass things like this, knitting and such, on to her daughter. She'd never had a daughter of her own, and heaven knew that Ruby wanted nothing to do with her mother-in-law. But she at least she had Mattie.

Lucien came to interrupt them soon enough. He was a welcome distraction for Mattie, it seemed. She was getting a bit disheartened by the complexity of knitting, it seemed. Bless her, though, she wasn't giving up.

Jean continued on, knit one, purl one, and smiled. Perhaps things hadn't turned out as she'd expected or even as she'd hoped. It didn't matter. She had a home and a family of sorts right here. People to teach and care for. And they all sat together in the parlor, talking and laughing as Jean and Mattie continued their knitting and Lucien proudly admired them both.


	15. Chapter 15

_Crossing the Line_

Upon seeing the flickering images projected onto the sheet in the parlor, Jean immediately bolted from the room, blushing up a storm. To see…well, she'd never seen anything like that. She'd never seen anyone in the act of…that. She'd done plenty of it herself when she was married, but to see a young couple…oh it was too much to even contemplate. And in her own house! Well obviously it was just a film but to have it seen in the room where she had been doing her knitting and sewing all these years was just obscene!

"How can you put up with a thing like that?!"

Jean turned to see Richard storming towards her in the garden. She had gone out to be alone, to regain her composure. It might have been nice for someone—Richard, particularly—to come out and see how she was doing. He did not seem to be in a comforting mood. "I beg your pardon?"

"That…that filth! You live in a house with a man who has that!?" he shouted.

"It's evidence in a murder investigation that Lucien and Charlie are working on, they didn't bring it home for the fun of it," she snapped. "You were there seeing it for the first time along with Lucien. He didn't know what it was!"

Richard sneered in disbelief. "You heard his reaction, apologizing all calmly like that. That doctor of yours has seen things like that before. He might not have known what it was, but he wasn't shocked or offended by it!"

Jean's jaw dropped. "How dare you insinuate that Doctor Blake is anything but a gentleman!"

"That's no gentleman," Richard replied with a hollow laugh. "He's as bad as the rest of those smut peddlers. And how you can try to defend him…"

"I will defend him!" she answered defiantly. "Lucien is not outwardly shocked or offended by things because he has a kind and understanding heart. He may not shrink away from a bit of sex, but he is the first man to correct an injustice wherever he finds it. He'll solve this case and he'll make sure the people responsible for that…that _film_ are apprehended and made to pay for what they've done! And if you are the type of man to stand out here shouting at me, I don't think there's any reason for you to be here any longer. In fact, I don't think you should call on me anymore."

Richard stood there, staring at her in surprise over her vehement defense of Lucien Blake.

"You can see yourself out," she added sharply.

Jean turned away and waited for the sounds of Richard walking away before she relaxed the tension in her body. She sat down on the lounge chair and exhaled slowly. Her heart was racing from all the excitement. There was probably a lot for her to think about, but she didn't want to ponder any of it at the moment. The only thought in her head was of getting that sheet off the wall and giving it a good wash.


	16. Chapter 16

_Mortal Coil_

Lucien sat at his desk and stared at the page in front of him. He'd filled in as much as he could. He didn't want anything fancy. He'd seen enough death in the least dignified of ways to have any illusions about his own final resting place. But he would like to be buried near his mother. Simple headstone with his name and the dates of his life. He'd written that in on the blank space provided. Simple coffin, nothing ornate. A pine box would suit him fine, but he had come to understand that the people who would attend his funeral in Ballarat—most out of a feeling of duty rather than much general affection for him—would want to see something at least lacquered. He'd checked the box on the form for that as well.

But there was one section still left blank that he did not like one bit. Next of kin. Who would be called in the event of his demise? Only one name came to mind. And it troubled him very much.

Jean had cared for him all these months living in Ballarat—Christ it was over a year now, wasn't it? She'd kept his house and his appointments and his accounts. She'd hauled him off to bed when he'd gotten too drunk to get there himself. She'd fed him three meals a day when he was home to eat them. She brought him tea and organized his files. And more than all that, she'd provided a brilliant mind and a kind ear to work with him through all the various problems that he came across in his life and in his work. She had saved his life, that Jean Beazley. Physically—he'd not forgotten the way she'd held a gun to Hannam to rescue him—and emotionally.

There was no one else in his life who would really care if he died. Lawson perhaps. But he was more likely to be the one to discover Lucien's body rather than be the one the funeral home contacted for the arrangements. No, Jean was really the only person who might feel any emotion beyond a passing hint of loss at Lucien's demise. Jean might actually mourn him. She had a kind heart that way.

So that was all there was to it. Jean would be his next of kin. She was not his family by blood or marriage, but she was certainly more family than he'd known in over a decade. Funny to realize that all of a sudden. Jean was family. She had a family of her own of course, as did he. But they were all so far away. Here, in this house, Lucien dared to believe that he and Jean had become each other's family.

No use sitting there staring at the page any longer. Lucien stood up and got a pen and gathered the pages of the form in search for Jean to ask if she'd sign the consent.


	17. Chapter 17

_The Silence_

Jean made some toast for Mattie, who wanted to get to the shops early that day, and went up to get dressed, telling Lucien to wait for her to make his breakfast afterwards. She was more than a little upset at him for that poisoned cake business. Obviously she understood his scientific method, and it did make sense, but the nerve of him!

Once her hair was pinned back and her clothes in proper order, Jean felt more like herself. She returned downstairs, calm and ready to start the day.

"Jean, I do need to test your blood. Mattie let me do hers before she left."

She sighed, "Yes, I know." She sat down at the table and held out her finger for him to prick.

"I am sorry I didn't tell you, but I assumed you wouldn't eat it if you knew."

"I might have done. You should know better than to make assumptions, Lucien," she chided.

He regarded her with slight amusement. "Would you really?"

Jean shrugged. "Perhaps. I do have a soft spot for chocolate cake."

"Childhood favorite of yours?" he asked, carefully pricking her finger. Jean had been pricked by a sewing needle enough times to not be bothered, and she didn't even wince.

She chewed on her words before deciding to answer him truthfully. "It was Christopher's favorite. I made a chocolate cake once a week for him when we were married. I don't make it anymore."

"Oh I am sorry."

"Don't be. It is nice to be reminded sometimes. Of some things. The memories don't hurt as much as they used to," she told him.

Lucien was still holding her hand to test the coagulation of her blood and comfortingly stroked her palm with his thumb. "I know the feeling."

Jean nodded. "I imagine you do."

Realizing the quiet intimacy of the moment, Lucien took his hand away. "I've always preferred Lamingtons, myself," he said breezily. "Which was convenient, as I'm rather certain now that mine from last night was poisoned."

For the grace of God, Jean resisted rolling her eyes at him. Instead, she laughed a little and said, "I used to crave Lamingtons when I was pregnant. I must have baked one every other day. That's how I figured out I was expecting Jack, actually. I had an overwhelming urge to bake a Lamington."

"I assume you're not pregnant at the moment, but if you're ever in the mood to bake one in the near future, I'd love to try your recipe, Jean."

A wry smile crossed her face. "You'd best be careful with that request, now that you know that you can never be sure what's in a Lamington."

With that, Jean stood and got started on their breakfast, leaving Lucien to chuckle merrily at her teasing.


	18. Chapter 18

_The Ties of the Past_

It was after dawn by the time he had enough liquid courage to use that key and actually open those doors to the old studio. He wandered the rooms as the ghosts of his memories swirled around him.

He was quickly interrupted by Jean, asking him if he'd slept. He hadn't. He had been too anxious about all this business with his mother to try and quiet his mind. But he was glad that it was morning now, that sunlight was coming through the old curtains. And he was glad that Jean had come to seek him out, wrapped in her cardigan and the vestiges of sleep still in her eyes.

As he told her about the gold leaf, his father locking the door, the painting of Agnes Clasby that seemed to be connected to Virginia McKay's death, Jean seemed to awaken more fully. Her eyes were shining as the tone of her voice increased in enthusiasm. This was what they did best, Lucien thought, he and Jean working through a problem together. Jean had always been good about letting him talk through his theories, about asking him the questions he needed to ponder to put him on the right track. She was brilliant, Jean Beazley, and Lucien knew how incredibly lucky he was to have her by his side for things like this.

It was in his mind to go immediately go to the gallery and find the painting in their storage. But Jean stopped him. "Wait, before you go, you should wash and change. And you should have some breakfast."

Her words were sufficient to slow him down. Another thing he certainly needed from time to time. "Yes, you're right."

Jean nodded and turned to go start making breakfast, but this time he stopped her. "Hang on a moment, Jean," he requested.

She turned back to him, looking at him expectantly.

"What…what do you think of this room? Or rather, rooms?" he asked her.

Jean gazed around with a more critical eye, taking in all of the art and supplies and the clutter and the décor and the furniture covered in white sheets. A small smile played on her lips as she walked past Lucien to the sofa and pulled the sheet off it. They both coughed slightly with the cloud of dust that appeared. Underneath was a brown leather sofa in surprisingly good condition. Jean nodded in satisfaction. "I think these rooms are wonderful, Lucien. And I think they could use a very good clean. Which, after breakfast, I would be rather honored to take care of."

"You would?"

"Yes, I would. There's something about the fact that its all been locked up but kept exactly how she left it. Or maybe it's the art. But I've been in this house a long time and I've never felt your mother's presence before. I feel it here."

Lucien smiled. "Yes, so do I." It was very true, that so little of the house, despite Jean and Mattie living there, had the feel of a woman's presence. The studio certainly did.

"I think I would have liked your mother," Jean told him softly.

"I know she would have adored you, Jean," he replied.

Jean gazed around the old studio again. "I'm glad."


	19. Chapter 19

_The Sky Is Empty_

After Father Morton's sermon at Mass, Jean spent all of Sunday thinking about the nature of sin. That story he told about adultery, about posing as a perfect housewife and Christian while sinning in private. Jean, of course, could not identify with that. Adultery was not a sin she herself had ever engaged in.

But she was not above reproach. She held her head high and went through her life proud of who she was and secure in the fact that she was an upstanding woman. And for the most part, that was correct. That pride, though, was the downfall of far too many. Sitting in Mass and hearing Father Morton talk about adultery, thinking all the while that she was so much better than the woman in his story, that was prideful.

On Monday morning, first thing after breakfast, she walked to Sacred Heart to give confession. It had been so long since she had done so, she did not quite recall what her last confession had been. There had been a time when she went to confession every two weeks. But life had not allowed time for such rigidity anymore. Life with Lucien was far too unpredictable for her to attend church other than for Mass each week. And even then, she was not as regular about it as she had once been.

Life with Lucien. That had certainly made her prideful. It had taken her quite a while to be proud of him. He was drunk and foolish and erratic and selfish, and the things he'd done to ruin his reputation and that of his father's had wounded her to the core. But he had softened. He had learned. And Jean had gotten to know him. He was no longer a source of shame for her but now a source of pride. He was a good man, her employer. He was a good man with an important job and Ballarat had grown to respect him, if somewhat reluctantly. And he had instilled pride in her. He had included her in his work, asking her advice and her assistance. And she was proud to provide it. She was proud to be a part of all that he did.

 _Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall_.

It was right there in the bible to taunt her. Jean sighed as she approached the church with its imposing edifice. It was certainly time for her to go to confession.


	20. Chapter 20

_An Invincible Summer_

Jean had gone to the sunroom to tend to her plants and to focus her mind on cultivating something she wouldn't so utterly fail at. Seeing Jack this week had been lovely; he was her son and she would always love him no matter what. But his presence, as always, did more to remind her of her failings than anything else. He had always been a boy with a wild way about him, like his father, and she had not been strong enough or good enough of a mother to lead him on the right path. He was still a boy when Doug Ashby had arrested him and sent him to Melbourne. Not even done with school. Fourteen years old when he was taken away from her. And it was only a year after that when Christopher Junior had joined the army and left her, too. She didn't like to think about it, but the truth was that Jean Beazley had not been a wife long enough to really be much good at it, and she'd not been a good enough mother to have sons who wanted anything to do with her.

And so she was here, in the Blake house, tending to plants because she could not fail them the way she'd done to her husband and her boys, and being paid to care for people she loved because she had been proven unworthy to have a proper family of her own. Such things she would never say out loud, of course. But in her heart, she knew them to be all too true.

Lucien came sauntering into the sunroom. He did things like that. Saunter places. It was an ease that she knew she would never really understand, but it was something she'd grown to admire about him. That he could live a life full of so much hardship and still find the strength to be kind and casual like that. She smiled to see him, hoping he could distract her from her melancholy thoughts.

"Jean," he greeted in that low voice she would not admit gave her a shiver.

"Lucien," she replied. "I should make you something to eat." Work would be good. Having a purpose.

"No, no" he protested, still maintaining his casual air. Jean took off her gloves as he crossed over to the window and gazed out of it, hands in his pockets. "Jack's gone, eh?"

Ah. Mattie must have been waiting for him. She'd said she was going out, but Jean had not seen her leave. "Yes," Jean replied to Lucien, wanting very much to not get caught on this particular topic. Not now. Not so soon.

"Oh he'll come back," Lucien said breezily. How easy it must be for him to say such things.

"No, I'm not so sure about that," she said, feeling the lump begin to form in her throat. Because that was the truth. Her Jack had always been a wanderer. And now there was a girl he'd gotten pregnant. She was nineteen. God in heaven, Jack was more like his father than Jean could have ever dreamed. Hopefully Jack would do what his father had done in the same situation and marry that girl. Hopefully God would not punish them as he had punished Jean and Christopher all those years ago. Either way, Jean did not expect to see her son again any time soon. If ever.

"We can't give up on them, can we?" Lucien replied, his easy tone tinged with meaning as he turned to look at her. "They'll always be our children." He turned back to the window. "And when he does decide to come back, well, he'll always be welcome here."

"This isn't his home, Lucien," she reminded him.

"It's _your_ home, Jean." The fervor with which he said those words made tears bloom in her eyes. "This is your home. And that means it's his home, too." Lucien's own voice cracked at that, as he reached out and placed a comforting hand on her arm.

Try as she might to keep her heartbreak inside, holding her uninjured hand to her stomach to compress all those roiling feelings, Jean utterly broke at the touch of his hand. She steadied herself on his arm and covered her mouth to keep from sobbing, and Lucien pulled her into the circle of his embrace. She held him around his waist as those big, muscular arms of his wrapped around her. His hands were massive, spanning her entire back. She rested her head against his shoulder, crying into the collar of his shirt. Her free hand fidgeted with the lapel of his waistcoat and the knot on his tie.

Oh to be in his arms this way, to feel comforted and safe and wanted for the first time in so very long! How did he do that? How did Lucien fill her with so much of everything? She could feel the scratch of his beard on her forehead. It was softer than she'd imagined. But everything about his solid, kindly presence soothed her. Soothed her and filled her with something else to push out all the sorrow she'd been crying over.

"It's alright," he whispered, hugging her close. "It's alright."

There was a moment, then, when the both of them seemed to freeze. Jean lifted her head, and Lucien removed his arms from around her. She looked up into his eyes, and his hands came to cup her jaw. She put her hands on his wrists, ready to hold his hands or throw her own arms around his neck as his face leaned closer to hers.

The ringing of the phone inside the house jolted them out of the moment. "I'll get that," Jean said, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Yes," Lucien replied, swallowing hard and turning away from her.

She wiped her eyes as she ran through the house to the ringing phone. Jean was, in equal measures, grateful for the interruption and cursing Alexander Graham Bell for even inventing the telephone at all. She was so lost in thought that she barely listened when she answered the call.

"Doctor Blake's surgery," she greeted as always.

It was Mattie calling to let her know that she would not be home for dinner that night. She was studying with one of her friends and they'd be going out to eat nearby the nurses' home.

Jean was trying to concentrate on the phone call and did not notice that Lucien had come inside. She hung up the phone and heard him behind her. "Jean."

She whirled around to find him standing extremely close again. "Lucien…"

"I didn't want to…I just…" His eyes were a bit wild as he stared into hers, and he was more tongue-tied than she had ever seen him.

Jean did not know what he was trying to say, but his eyes told her all she needed to know. With a shaky yet bold hand, Jean reached up to cup his cheek. "Lucien," she whispered.

And then his lips crashed against hers. He wrapped his arms around her again, this time holding the fabric of her blouse tightly in his fists. Her hand slid to the back of his neck, holding him against her. Their lips moved together in the most perfect, passionate rhythm. Jean had never kissed a man with a beard before, and she did not mind it at all. At least when it was Lucien. She did not mind anything about kissing him. She felt as though her whole body were molten chocolate, bubbling and oozing into the floor. It was as though she ceased to exist. All that existed was Lucien. Kissing Lucien.

Oh no, she was kissing Lucien! Jean pulled back, gasping in surprise and panic over what she'd done. "Oh…I…"

Lucien let go of her as soon as she stepped away, but those brilliant blue eyes of his blinked in confusion. "Jean, I…"

Jean just shook her head, shocked and appalled over what she'd allowed herself to do in her weakness. She turned and ran up the stairs and shut her bedroom door behind her.


	21. Chapter 21

_King of the Lake_

Lucien changed from his suit into a more comfortable cardigan after dinner. He went down to the kitchen for a glass of water, somewhat anxious over what he might find. The light was on. Jean was there. They'd been bickering far too much recently. After their emotional moment in the sunroom and what had happened afterwards, they'd both avoided each other for about two days and then tried to move on as though nothing had happened. But something had happened. And Lucien couldn't get it out of his head. Still, that was nothing to focus on now.

"Foxglove," Jean announced as he came in, arranging flowers in a vase. "From the garden."

"Foxglove?" he asked, watching her work.

"Mmm."

"Very medicinal, you know," Lucien told her as he got a glass from the cupboard.

"Really? And I just thought they were pretty flowers. Oh, I've put some more of your father's belongings in the surgery. I don't know what you want to do with them," Jean said.

Lucien crossed to the sink to fill his glass. He scoffed, "That makes two of us."

"Oh, Charlie told me about the Goodman boy down at the lake."

"Yes, I knew his mother years ago. Before I left to study in Scotland. She was the first woman I ever…courted."

"Oh."

Christ, this was the last thing he wanted to tell Jean. Though she was just his housekeeper and friend. Nothing more. No reason he couldn't tell her these things. It wasn't as though he were courting Jean and going on about an old girlfriend. The way she'd reacted, though, made him very nervous. What was she thinking? Was she jealous, perhaps? No, that was probably too much to hope for. Probably his ego getting a bit puffed up. Was she just interested? Disappointed in him? Bloody hell, why did he care so much about what she thought!?

He tried not to look at her as he spoke, but he couldn't seem to look away from her. Then again, that was nothing new. "The night before I was leaving, we had a…oh, we had a silly argument. Believe it or not, I was thinking about proposing to her. Instead, I left the next day and never saw her again. Joined the army, eventually got posted to Singapore," he said, skipping over all the things that led to those changes in his life. But that's what had started him down that path. Going to Scotland to become a doctor and deciding rather resolutely that he had absolutely no intention of going back to Ballarat. He realized, "It's funny, isn't it? How your life can turn on a single moment. On a single decision."

As he mused on that thought, Lucien watched the expression on Jean's face turn to something very pensive, very significant. But for what purpose, he could not quite tell. She replied, "Yes, it is, isn't it?"

How he longed to ask her how it was that she understood his statement so well. What decision had she made that changed everything? What paths diverged before her that she had chosen one over another to lead her here? But Lucien did not ask her these things. For she was his housekeeper, and it would be impertinent of him to ask.

"Well, goodnight, Lucien," Jean said, turning to leave the kitchen.

Lucien was left alone with his glass of water, saying, "Goodnight, Jean," after she'd already walked out of the room. He stared at the pretty foxglove flowers and could not help but feel that there was a great divide still between Jean and himself, and for the life of him, Lucien could not figure out how to solve it.


	22. Chapter 22

_My Brother's Keeper_

Jean excused herself rather quickly after Ruth Dempster haltingly proclaimed that she wouldn't be able to go on now that Ben had died. She went to the kitchen with the tea things and washed some things up.

Being in the house again, being with a woman after she'd been told her husband had died. Ruth was right, it was just like when Christopher didn't come home. Only Christopher hadn't been out drinking and gambling when he didn't come home. Christopher had been gone for months and months, fighting in a war on a foreign shore that he hadn't believed in. Jean had been left right where she was now, in the kitchen of that farmhouse.

All of a sudden, it was more than she could bear. The walls were closing in, and Jean needed to escape. And wasn't that just the icing on the cake? Somehow, someway, Jean had always seemed to need to escape. But usually it wasn't so easy as going out the back door and standing at the edge of the field.

The air on the farm was different than it was in town. Even the Blake house, which wasn't so close to the bustle of the high street, didn't have air like the farm. And not just any farm. This farm. Her farm. Their farm.

Jean gazed out upon wilting heads of lettuce, her mind swirling with all manner of thoughts. Today, of all days, she wanted to be here. She was lucky to have the opportunity to accompany Lucien and Charlie to the farm, to be able to stand on the ground where she had raised her sons, where she had once loved her husband, where she had experienced the best and worst of life.

But everything was so different. The Goldtooth Aloe might still be growing where Jean had planted it all those years ago, but it was bigger and wilder than before. Jean was different, too. In so many ways, she'd not grown bigger or wilder as the aloe had. She knew her place much better than she had when she was young. She had long forgotten the rebellious dreams of her youth, the dreams she and Christopher had shared when they lived here together. And yet, in so many more ways, she was freer than she'd been on the farm. The crops grew in their rows and in their plots and never dared spread their tendrils too far beyond. Jean had dipped her toes into adventure and ended up swimming in it, thanks to Lucien.

Oh, Lucien. That was another cause for her discomfort today. She missed Christopher still, each and every day. But she missed him less…desperately, perhaps was the word for it. The ache in her heart caused by his death was no longer on the forefront of her being. Instead, it had been overtaken by a different kind of ache. This was not an ache of loss but an ache of longing. For all that Jean Beazley was still nothing more than a poor farmer's wife who dreamed of a wider world, this man in whose house she lived had awakened something inside her. Jean _wanted_. She wanted so much. She wanted excitement. She wanted to learn. She wanted to help people and solve mysteries and stand at Lucien's side through it all.

And oh how she wanted Lucien! Only a few weeks had gone by since their fateful kiss, and she had not gone an hour without thinking about it since. But today was not for such things. Today was to reflect and remember. Today was to honor Christopher, the man whose ring she still wore. Today was a day to let that ache of loss take back its place, dominating her heart. She did not feel this way every day, nor did she want to. But today, today she would feel it.

The sound of the back door opening and closing startled her slightly. Jean did not turn, but she knew it was Lucien walking towards her. She could tell by the sounds of his footsteps, the rhythm of his gait. And in spite of it all, in spite of where she was standing and the heaviness of her heart, a little flicker of hope sparked inside her. And for just one moment, Jean smiled.


End file.
